


Canem Inferni

by lindenmae



Series: The Highland Hound series [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindenmae/pseuds/lindenmae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tell me, gladiator, have you heard of the Highland Hounds of No Man’s Isle?” The Emperor asks, an unsettling gleam in his eye.</p><p>This time Eames does not respond, neither with a nod nor a shake of his head. He has heard tale of the hounds but he knows them as just that – a tale. Men so far removed from the rest of humanity that over time they grew to resemble wolves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Canem Inferni

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: non-con/dub-con, voyeurism, public humiliation, slavery, violence, rough sex, top!Arthur/ bottom!Eames, dogboy!Arthur, possesive!Arthur, knotting, naked gladiators, willful ignorance of the obvious complications of sex in the sand, what is science? what is history? for the [heat fest](http://arthur-eames.dreamwidth.org/18159.html?view=70895&posted=1#cmt70895) on dreamwidth.

His heart beats hard as he's prepared to enter the arena, but he glowers at the slaves as they ready him for battle to mask any nerves. Two women, beautiful and exotic, rub his skin down with oil until it gleams in the light and pull at his cock until it hangs half-hard and heavy between his legs. They giggle and flash their breasts at him as they dig their fingers into the muscles of his thighs, the hard planes of his chest, but he ignores them, staring straight ahead at the gate that will soon lift and let him out of this tunnel. They quickly realize that he will not come looking to them for entertainment after the battle and finish their task more methodically than before and with glowers of their own. They redress him in his leather kilt, lace his sandals, and return his sword. Despite his stoicism, one of the girls still dares to press a kiss to his lips when she sets his helmet on his head.

“For luck, gladiator,” she whispers, her voice husky and heavily-accented. She smiles at him, a secret held tight in her sparkling eyes and he can’t help but offer her his own smirk back. He still has no intention of fucking her, but he likes the confident ones.

When the gate is lifted the tunnel fills with light that reflects off of his shining skin. He is blinding as he steps out into the sand. The roar of the crowd is deafening and he fights to tune it out as he raises his gaze and searches the stands for his patrons, the fat nobility who have paid to put on this show. His eyes alight on a richly dressed man and a beautiful woman who is watching him with hunger in her eyes. So it is the Emperor who has brought him here to fight for his amusement.

He was caught on the edge of an outlying town, conning soldiers out of their wages. They recognized the markings across his arms and chest; knew him for a warrior and made him into a gladiator. He has done well at it because he is big and looks dumb and the other fighters are so quick to assume, but he has not fought for the Emperor before.

“Gladiator,” Emperor Saito says, his voice immediately the only thing to be heard inside of the arena. “What is your name?”

The woman watches him intently and he winks at her just to see if he can put her off, but her lips only curl into a feral smile that sets him on edge. There is only a hint of teeth but he can see that they are sharp.

“Eames,” he says, voice low but proud.

“Are you prepared to fight?” The Emperor continues, a smile nearly as sharp as his companion’s playing about his own features.

“I am,” Eames says because he has no choice. To say no would look weak and to look weak is certain death. This only makes the Emperor’s smile deepen maliciously and Eames feels his stomach begin to knot. There is something off here, something untold in the smiles of everyone he has encountered since being brought to the city proper.

“I fear you are not, gladiator,” the woman says, her voice surprisingly soft compared to her demeanor.

“Bring him out!” The Emperor’s command is met with riotous cheers and the second gate is lifted.

For a long minute Eames can see nothing but the darkness of the other tunnel and he flexes his grip on his sword hilt, but then a figure emerges, one man leading another man behind him on a chain. The second man holds his head low, dark hair obscuring his face, but that does not keep Eames from seeing that he is blindfolded. The chain connects to a collar around his neck and to leather cuffs around his wrists. He is slim, quite slimmer than Eames, but taut, all long, tense muscle. His leather leggings are nearly skintight, kept up by a thick belt around his hips to which his wrists are bound, but that is not what takes Eames aback.

The leggings cover only the man’s thighs, the crotch cut out of them, leaving his cock and balls exposed. They are engorged, an angry red as if the man has been hard for days and allowed no relief. His rigid cock points right at Eames, the tip glistening like the oil on Eames’s skin in the sun. Eames feels his own cock take notice and begin to lift his short kilt at the front. As if sensing his arousal the other man lifts his head sharply and sniffs the air, staring straight at Eames like he can see him through the blindfold. The man opens his mouth, tongue darting out to taste the air, and behind his lips Eames can see fangs.

The man in front looks at Eames warily, almost apologetically, before turning hardened eyes on the Emperor.

“Tell me, gladiator, have you heard of the Highland Hounds of No Man’s Isle?” The Emperor asks, an unsettling gleam in his eye.

This time Eames does not respond, neither with a nod nor a shake of his head. He has heard tale of the hounds but he knows them as just that – a tale. Men so far removed from the rest of humanity that over time they grew to resemble wolves. He’s never believed them to be real.

“Fearsome warriors but very secretive. They tried hard to resist my army when it came but, you see, it was good that I discovered them. So xenophobic, they are, so close-knit, they had nearly driven themselves to extinction with inbreeding and violence. They are a bit blood-thirsty by nature. You may have noticed the trait in the lovely Mal,” the Emperor lays a hand on the woman’s arm and her eyes twinkle with barely concealed menace.

“When the males go into heat they become even more aggressive than normal. The heat can only be truly calmed by mating, but in the case that a male hound cannot find a mate or, rarely, refuses one, he will be driven to acts of extreme violence.”

“Arthur is one of the very rare ones,” muses the woman. The chained man perks at hearing his name, shoulders rising, muscles straining at his bonds. Eames shivers. “He has refused every potential mate brought before him. This is his tenth heat, gladiator, and he has yet to mate. If he continues like this, his heats will grow worse until they ultimately kill him.” She sounds genuinely mournful at the prospect. Eames’s unease grows, sinking like a leaden stone in his stomach.

Why have you brought me here?” Eames demands as fear coils hot around his heart.

“To give us a show,” the Emperor replies. “The lust demands this creature fuck or fight. He is one of my favorites. It pains me to see him tortured by his own nature.”

“You expect me to fuck him?”

“Oh no. Not at all. It is you who will be fucked… or you will be ripped to pieces,” the Emperor states with a wave of his hand. “Release him.”

The man in front of the Highland Hound sighs, sparing one more, sad look at Eames. Eames recognizes his general’s uniform and does not miss the furtive glances he sneaks at the Highland bitch in the stands. He is gentle with the creature, as if unhappy to see him chained at all even despite his supposed malice. He strokes the man’s arms softly, calming him, before releasing his wrists and then the chain at his collar. When done, the man runs for the open tunnel, the one behind Eames blocked off long before.

The hound, Arthur, flexes his wrists and throws back his shoulders, reaching up to pull the blindfold from his face with a quick and graceful gesture. His movements are fluid and his muscles ripple beneath his skin with every one of them. Eames’s breath catches in his throat at the full sight of Arthur unfettered. He is a glorious creature, every bit as beautiful as the woman beside the Emperor but decidedly sexual, pheromones practically radiating off of him in waves. Eames’s cock jumps beneath his kilt and Arthur immediately sniffs at the air, keenly aware of every traitorous pulse of pre-come that trickles down Eames’s shaft.

Arthur smiles, fangs on full display, and his eyes lock on Eames. His pupils are dilated so wide that his gaze is entirely black and when he licks his lips, Eames’s heart starts to pound. He brandishes his sword but Arthur is fast and agile and has a hand at Eames’s throat before he can strike. Arthur is taller but Eames is broader and he muscles into Arthur’s space, brings the hilt of his sword up and down in a quick but forceful jab between the hound’s shoulder blades. Arthur arches back and snarls, striking at Eames’s face with his free hand, digging deep furrows into his cheek with claws that Eames had missed before. The cuts sting but Eames doesn’t dare press a hand to them. He sinks his fingers into Arthur’s hair and pulls until the hound whines. He takes advantage of the distraction and attempts to get his sword in a position to injure his opponent in such close combat, but Arthur dances away and then ducks back in, slamming his fist into Eames’s chest.

Eames fights not to double over, lunging at Arthur with the tip of his sword pointed outward. Arthur dodges but not quickly enough, the sharp side of the blade drawing a red line along the base of his ribcage. He growls and his eyes flash red but Eames does not tremble. He grips the sword hilt with both hands and swings hard at Arthur’s lithe body. Arthur dives and rolls and the blade cuts only air. Eames can feel the unbearable heat of Arthur’s body at his back only seconds before the hound is upon him, Arthur’s fangs sinking into the meat of Eames’s forearm, the pain sharp and tearing. He cries out as he is forced to drop his only weapon by the pressure of Arthur’s jaw on his muscle. The crowd roars its approval at the hound’s dominance of his prey and adrenaline surges through Eames’s body. He swings with his free hand, slamming his fist into Arthur’s brow, knocking him off. Chunks of Eames’s flesh go with him, but Eames hardly feels the pain.

Arthur is on him again before he can reach the sword, dragging him to the ground, slamming his head into the sand. They grapple, Eames trying to overpower Arthur with brute force alone. Arthur stays atop him, riding out each of Eames’s attempts to throw him off. He pants, tongue hanging out, and leans in suddenly to inhale Eames’s scent, pressing his nose firmly against the gladiator’s pulse. The points of his claws dig into Eames’s arms where they grip him, but Arthur does not rip into his skin as Eames’s expects. Instead he opens his mouth against Eames’s neck and laps at the salty sweat gathered beneath his jaw. Then he bites.

Eames arches off of the ground, closing his fists around piles of sand, and moans. Arthur’s fangs don’t break skin and his tongue works at the tendon between his teeth, shooting thrilling bolts of electricity down Eames’s spine and straight to his cock. His kilt has been pushed up and at the first brush of Arthur’s erection against his own he shouts, loud enough to be heard over the screams of the crowd. Arthur chokes on a gasp and throws himself off of Eames, a fire lit anew in his eyes.

“I will mate you,” he says, crouched before Eames, who had taken Arthur’s retreat as an opportunity to get to his feet but is shocked into stillness by Arthur’s voice. It is deep and throaty and Eames cock betrays his interest, pointing skyward. Arthur’s chest heaves in and out, shiny where oil was transferred from Eames’s skin to his.

Eames should fight, even flee, scramble for his sword at the least to defend himself from the oncoming attack, but he is frozen in place by arousal. He is oddly unafraid.

“Roll over,” Arthur commands.

Eames doesn’t. He breathes shallowly and struggles to see through the haze that comes over his vision but he doesn’t move. Arthur growls and rounds his shoulders, ready to pounce and the crowd screams, many of them risen to their feet in eager anticipation. They can’t hear what is being said, are only attuned to the fact that the final blow is coming. Be it blood or semen that spills, the crowd will be satisfied.

“Roll over,” Arthur demands, his cock hanging heavily in the air in front of him and Eames inexplicably wants to wrap his fingers around it and feel it throb in his hand. He wants to sink to his knees while Arthur watches from above and suck the glistening tip into his mouth, taste this creature’s cum on his tongue.

He still doesn’t move.

Arthur lets loose a frustrated howl and dives for him and crushes their mouths together with more force than finesse. His fangs pierce the thin skin of Eames’s bottom lip but he doesn’t care, struggling to push his tongue past the sharp points to push against Arthur’s. The crowd erupts and the noise is nothing but a dull thrum in the back of Eames’s head as he reaches up to twist his fingers in Arthur’s dark curls. Arthur keens and moves down Eames’s body, lapping and licking and biting at all of the skin he encounters, pinching a nipple between his teeth and pulling until Eames body bows beneath him and he cries out with the sharp prick of painful pleasure that unfurls all along his nerve endings. He laps at Eames’s cock, tasting him for only an instant before moving on despite Eames’s disappointed sob. Arthur noses around the base and licks at his sac before pushing it out of the way so that he can bury his face in the sweat slicked space behind it.

"Bloody fuck!"

Eames yells until he is hoarse when Arthur’s tongue dips into the cleft of his ass and teases around the rim of his hole. Arthur’s breath is hot and wet against the most intimate parts of him and he can feel himself opening eagerly to the insistent press of Arthur’s licks. Arthur gets Eames’s legs over his shoulders and pushes him up, nearly bending him half to get better access; working insistently to get Eames wet and relaxed and ready to be taken. Eames can do nothing but moan and grasp weakly at Arthur’s thighs with his fingertips. He should be mortified, enraged, but he can’t think past the pleasure of Arthur’s tongue on him, Arthur’s fingers slipping inside of him, forceful, but careful not to scratch. He mutters nonsense into his own shoulder, shaking his head back and forth, a litany of breathless yesses escaping past his lips.

“Roll over,” Arthur says one last time and when Eames can’t, too weak and wrecked with arousal to concentrate on moving his limbs, Arthur manhandles him over onto his knees until his unmarred cheek is pressed to the ground and his ass is in the air, his vulnerability being presented to the Emperor and the lady beside him and anyone in the crowd who cares to see it, which is everyone.

When Arthur presses into him the stretch is painful but eased by Arthur’s saliva and Eames’s own desire. He sinks in slowly on the first stroke, presses his chest to Eames’s back for a moment and pants above him, but then the frenzy begins. Arthur closes his teeth over the back of Eames and neck and pounds into him, pistoning his hips in automatic movements that drive his cock deeper into Eames with every pass. After a time, Arthur throws his head back and howls, drowning out the sound of his balls slapping against Eames’s ass. Each thrust leaves Eames breathless, his vision slowly blackening as the pleasure overtakes him. He doesn’t reach for his own cock, simply focuses on the feeling of Arthur’s thick erection driving into him hard, over and over.

He whines angrily when Arthur pulls out without warning, his hands grasping forcefully at Eames’s hips and shoulders. It takes an awkward moment of Eames struggling to understand before Arthur can roll him over again and spread his thighs wide. A pleased rumble vibrates out of Arthur’s throat as he sinks back in, the different angle drawing a loud cry from Eames’s lips. Arthur kisses him again as he rocks his hips, hitting a spot inside of Eames that turns his vision white with every thrust.

“You are my mate,” Arthur gasps against his lips, his thrust becoming erratic. He reaches between them to curl long fingers around Eames’s cock and squeeze. Eames chokes on his assent as he comes, painting both their chests with it. “You are mine,” Arthur growls as he slams into Eames one last time and stays there, hot spurts of his seed searing Eames inside.

Arthur continues to growl low in his throat as he nuzzles at Eames’s neck and around his jaw and doesn’t pull out. It doesn’t take Eames long to realize why. The pressure inside of him, at the base of Arthur’s cock where his balls are resting against Eames’s ass, is continuing to build rather than soften as he had expected. He gasps and bears down against it on an aftershock of his orgasm and Arthur moans into his neck.

“Again,” he begs, still rocking into Eames in small, abortive motions. Eames does his best to contract his muscles against the stretch until it begins to slow and Arthur squirms against him, random spurts of hot come still filling him.

“What, unhh, what is that?” It isn’t entirely unpleasant, though it feels like he is being stretched to capacity, like if the pressure were to build any further he would be split in two. But where it is now, steady, he feels full and oddly completed, like this creature he did not previously know existed was meant to stay within him like this, always.

“My knot,” Arthur mumbles into his shoulder, the urgency of the last hour leaving him. “You are my mate,” Arthur says again, as if that explains it all.

“Good people!” Eames distantly hears the Emperor exclaim through the dull thud of his heart in his ears. “It seems there will be no killing today. After many battles the hound has found his other half! As I had suspected this time he would.”

Eames doesn’t question that Emperor Saito could have known such a thing - that an unwilling gladiator was the key to forever calming a wild beast of a man. Arthur shifts slightly against him, as if trying to bring their bodies even closer together, to erase the line that demarcates where Eames ends and Arthur begins. Even such a subtle movement jostles Arthur inside of him, sending delicious shivers along his spine and making him gasp.

The roar of the crowd begins to soften as their bloodlust is sated and it becomes clear that the action has ended. They leave the stands in groups, unwilling to sit in the sun for the length of time it will take for Arthur and Eames to separate.

“Arthur, how long will we be like this?” Eames asks softly, not uncomfortable yet but beginning to itch where come and sweat and sand have dried together in the tangles of his chest hair and slowly growing increasingly aware of his surroundings.

“Mmm,” Arthur rumbles against his skin, evidently pleased at hearing his name on Eames’s lips. “Long.”

It is not the idea of being tied to Arthur for any length of time that bothers Eames, but the sun that is beating down against Arthur’s pale, bare back and the sand against his own. Arthur nuzzles his chin and then reaches his lips and Eames closes his eyes and allows himself to drift on the distraction that Arthur is clearly trying to offer him.

“It won’t happen this way again,” Arthur says softly, in a soothing voice. The heat may not have left him entirely yet, but it has been sated enough for the moment that coherent thought and speech has begun to return to him.

“No?” Eames takes a chance and runs the palm of one hand down the sloping planes of Arthur’s muscled back.

Arthur arches into Eames’s hand with a happy sigh. “I will never allow you to be made a spectacle of again and I will kill anyone who would try to part us,” Arthur growls, then tenses. “As long as that is what you want.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” Eames chuckles and wraps both arms around Arthur’s waist, hugging him tightly when he tenses further. “What would happen if I refused you?”

“I would never mate with anyone else and I would die. The heat would kill me,” Arthur says matter-of-factly, pushing up onto his elbows to look Eames in the eye. His pupils have gone down slightly revealing warm brown irises.

“Well I don’t much like that idea," Eames muses, surprised by the truth of it. "I suppose I’ll have to keep you, then.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything, only smiles, wide and honest and happy and nothing like the menacing grin he had displayed before. There are dimples in his cheeks, completely incongruous with the short, pointed fangs in his mouth. They make him look younger and softer, reminding Eames of a puppy more than a dangerous wolf.

The man who had held Arthur’s lead returns, this time carrying a blanket to cover them until Arthur softens enough to pull out. Eames is severely disappointed at the separation until the general introduces himself as Dom and takes them to a set of chambers that have been richly furnished and filled with food and wine. They are left alone immediately, but that is barely soon enough for Arthur, who is flushed and hard again and on Eames in an instant, growling declarations into his skin.

When Eames had readied for battle that day the thought that he might die had crossed his mind. The thought that he might die of a happiness he had not previously known he was lacking had not. His arms now full of a stunning, impossible creature, Eames has never been more content to have been wrong.


End file.
